


The Man Who Knows

by SailorChibi



Series: Caring For John [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s, Dom!Sherlock, Fluff, John wants to submit, M/M, Sherlock knows everything, Spanking, Sub!John, mild dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has spent his whole life searching for someone that he can submit to. He just wants someone to take care of him but he's never found the right person. Until he started dating Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man Who Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119921439&) on the BBC kink meme.

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

That’s the question that greets John as he trudges up the last few steps to the flat, his muscles straining under the bags of food he’s carrying. He casts a glance at Sherlock, who is lying on his back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, hands steepled under his chin, and continues on into the kitchen. Sherlock has the tendency to talk out loud sometimes and he gets annoyed if someone answers him, so it’s only fair that it takes John a moment to realize that the question was actually directed towards him. He knows this because Sherlock is now boring a hole through his back with the force of his ‘pay attention to me’ stare.

“Why would someone do what?” he asks finally, resigned to the fact that this isn’t going to be the quiet night he was desperately hoping for. It’s been a very long day at the surgery.

“Weren’t you listening to me before?” Sherlock demands.

“I wasn’t _here_ before, Sherlock. You do remember that little chat we had about how I can’t hear you when I’m not in the flat?”

Sherlock scowls, which is his way of admitting that John is right, and says, “Submit.” He speaks it with an air of distaste, like it’s the worst word he can think of. He says it the way most people look at or smell something rank and John’s stomach tightens.

“Submit,” he repeats. “I don’t follow.”

“The case, John!”

“You’ve got a new case with Lestrade?” John accepts the files that are shoved in his face a moment later and flips through them. It looks like a nasty one. Man was discovered tied up in his flat, the ropes positioned in such a way that it was clearly meant to have a sexual element to it. According to the report, the girlfriend is insisting that it was consensual but that she wasn’t a part of it or his death, which means they’re left to find who was. John swallows hard and looks up slowly. “I see.”

“Why? Why would someone do that?” Sherlock is pacing back and forth. His curls are mussed like he’s been running his hands through his hair all day. He’s wearing a pair of pyjamas with a stain on the bottoms and one of his rattier dressing gowns, and John feels a stab of affection, watching him. It’s moments like these, where Sherlock is unarguably human, that he knows why he puts up with the man.

“Some people enjoy it,” John says mildly, closing the file and placing it back on the coffee table. “It’s about trust, Sherlock. Trusting someone so much that you’re willing to put yourself into their hands. Willing to trust them to take care of you, to take you to your limits and care about you when you fall apart and then put you back together. And it’s comforting, not having to think or worry about choices. You can’t choose wrong if someone else is doing it for you. And of course there’s an element of sexual interest, which I think is rather obvious judging from the way he was tied up.” He blinks and looks up and is unnerved to find Sherlock looking at him, the pale eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says abruptly, and John _knows_.

“No. No, Sherlock, you wouldn’t enjoy it,” he says, hoping to nip this in the bud. “You hate anyone telling you what to do. God, you even hate _me_ telling you what to do and I’m just trying to keep you alive and healthy 90% of the time. It would be a bit not good for someone like you.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, ignoring him. John shakes his head and gives up, knowing that he can’t make Sherlock stay away from the idea, even though he knows Sherlock wouldn’t like it. Sherlock is Sherlock and he’ll do what he wants. It’s just the way things are.

\---

The first time it happened John was only eighteen.

His girlfriend, Nathalie, had just found out that her family was moving away from England, overseas to America, and the chances of them coming back weren’t high. Her father had gotten a promotion. She was nervous and John was trying to comfort her as best he knew how, and when she asked if they could have sex as a way to say good-bye, well, he was a teenaged boy, it wasn’t like he was going to say no.

He’d had sex a few times before; it wasn’t like he was a virgin. But he wasn’t prepared for Nathalie. She pushed his wrists down beside his head while they kissed and when she asked, breathlessly, if she could try something he was all for it. She climbed on top of him and made him cup his hands under her knees so that he couldn’t move, and then she rode him, breasts bouncing, head tipped back, her thighs propelling her up and down his cock like this was old hat for her. Maybe it was.

It was wild and freeing and John came so hard it hurt, the only part of him able to move his hips as he thrust haplessly up to meet her. Afterwards she fell over next to him, panting, and told him that he was the best she’d ever had. And John didn’t dare say as much to her but he felt the same, and two weeks later Nathalie left and he spent the next several years trying to find someone to do what had come so naturally to her.

\---

The case may have provoked it, but John suspects this whole “dom/sub” thing has been bothering Sherlock since Irene Adler. Sometimes Sherlock will get this look on his face, this far away, distant frown, and John is pretty sure he’s thinking about Irene, not that Sherlock would ever admit it. He supposes that it makes sense; it must be hard for someone like Sherlock to understand why anyone would enjoy that. He also thinks that it may be why Sherlock never accepted Irene’s propositions.

But then, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t really do sex, period. He’s made that clear and it’s a boundary that John has made sure not to cross since that night at Angelo’s, even though he’s thought about it. Of course he’s thought about it. Sherlock isn’t handsome or attractive in a classical way; he’s all sharp lines and angles, bright eyes and pale skin with dark hair, but he’s got a unique beauty about him and John is only human. He doesn’t blame Irene for trying, though he’s perversely satisfied that she’s failed.

As it turns out, John succeeds in her stead.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t happen because of a case, or the adrenaline rush afterwards, or because one of them is wounded, or sick, or anything like that, really. It’s an early Saturday morning when John has dragged himself out of bed much earlier than he’d like. He puts the kettle on and rubs his eyes as he waits for the water to boil, and Sherlock comes up behind him and just stands there until John turns around and looks at him.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. His long fingers cup John’s face and he leans in and kisses John, carefully chaste, just enough pressure to let John know he’s there, before he pulls away. His hands are cold and he watches John intently.

John licks his lower lip. “That’s alright, then,” he says, cheeks flushed. “Breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Figures. “You can have an egg.”

Sherlock shrugs, like ‘you can’t make me’, and John rolls his eyes. The kettle beeps and he pours the steaming water into two cups and adds a teabag to each before he turns around and puts a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him back down.

This time the kiss is much more passionate, open mouths and tongues and John feels dizzy with wanting by the time they separate. Somehow the four minutes he always waits for the tea has passed in a heartbeat, the span of a single kiss. He adds the right amount of milk and sugar with hands that shake - no tremble, though, curious - and hands one to Sherlock, who actually drinks it.

“We have a new case,” Sherlock says in between fast sips.

That explains why he’s gulping it down. John forgoes the idea of breakfast; it must be an interesting case if Sherlock has managed to hoard it to himself for the whole thirty minutes John has been awake. Though the kissing may have helped. “Fair enough.”

\---

The next encounter didn’t go so well. It was his fifth - sixth? They blurred together there, for a bit - girlfriend and she was brassy and demanding, wanting things to go her way and not afraid to order people around to get it. She was selfish in bed and John believed it could be good, like _that_. He eagerly gave into her wishes and desires, pleasuring her with his tongue until she squirmed desperately against the bed and begged him to stop even though she didn’t want him to.

They were together for a couple of months before he first approached the idea of being held down with her. She looked at him like he’d lost his mind and called him a freak and walked out of the flat. He tried to call her later that night and she picked up the phone and told him, quite calmly, to stop trying to contact her because she didn’t have sex with people who were weird, and in the background he heard people laughing and his face flushed with humiliation and arousal as he slammed the phone down.

That was when he learned the difference between people who were just plain selfish and people who could actually give him what he needed. Pity that the latter seemed to be so few and far between, while he dealt with plenty of the former.

\---

The first time he and Sherlock have sex, John’s not sure what to expect. They’ve been dating - well, he calls it dating, though he’s not sure crime scenes can be counted - for about a month and nothing has really changed between them beyond the occasional kiss or snogging session that leaves John hot and bothered. Sherlock is still Sherlock, concentrating on the cases with all the determination of a man possessed, and John loves that about him, loves it so much he won’t try to change Sherlock because that determination keeps them both alive.

Still, there are times when there aren’t cases and it’s during one of those. John is sitting on the sofa watching telly when Sherlock comes over, sits down beside him and puts a hand on John’s cock. No warning, no permission, just long fingers tracing the outline of his limp penis. John blinks and looks down, watching the almost clinical progression, and it shouldn’t turn him on but it does. He watches his erection start to swell with blood, growing beneath the delicate touch, until Sherlock palms him and tugs.

“Fuck,” he says raggedly, drawing in a sharp breath. “Sherlock, are you - ”

Sherlock kisses him and then moves, swinging a leg over John’s lap so that he can straddle him, one hand continuing to work between them while the other cups John’s jaw and holds him in place. Sherlock proves to be amazingly adept at unfastening buttons and zips with one hand and in due time he has both their cocks out, pressed and rubbing together, the friction just this side of painful until they’ve produced enough pre-come to make it warm and slippery and wet.

“Sherlock,” John gasps.

“Shh,” Sherlock whispers, and his thumb strokes John’s cheek. John’s mouth shuts and then his eyes follow suit. His hands remain at his sides, not trapped, but if he doesn’t look then he can imagine that they are. Sherlock’s breath washes over his face as his hand manipulates them, alternating between agonizingly slow pulls and short, harsh strokes. John squirms beneath him, his hips unable to thrust because of the angle, and a strangled whimper emerges from his throat.

“You want it, I know, John. I can see it in you even when you try to hide.” Bow-shaped lips slide across the fabric that covers his wounded shoulder, up, up, up and over, across the flesh of his neck, and then he feels sharp teeth nibbling at his skin. John breathes in sharply, ready to tell him not to leave a mark, but Sherlock presses a finger over his lips and the words die instantly at the silent command. 

Slowly, with a caution usually reserved for cases, Sherlock’s pace slows until he’s barely stroking them as he deliberately sucks a large red mark onto the side of John’s neck. It will darken into a vivid bruise within a handful of hours and Sherlock looks pleased as he leans back and examines it. He tilts John’s head back and then forward again, brushing their lips together. He traces the line of John’s lips with his tongue, gentle laps that seemed specifically designed to drive John to the edge of his sanity, and then slowly slides his tongue inside. John meets him eagerly but Sherlock shushes him again, keeping the pace maddeningly slow, with none of the franticness John has always imagined for their first time.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, pulling back with one lingering lick. “You’d like to come, John, wouldn’t you?”

Can he speak? John’s eyes dart up to Sherlock, trying to find an answer, but all he can see is passion mingled with the expression Sherlock makes when he’s deducing, and the words seize in his throat. He nods instead and moans, the noise slipping out before he can stop it. Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a smile and he moves his hand thoughtfully, the pads of his fingers rubbing at the tip of John’s cock. John writhes beneath him at the move. The pressure and the warmth and Sherlock’s comfortable weight holding him down, it’s just too much.

He makes a desperate sound and Sherlock bites gently at his throat in response, speeding up, curling his hand so that their cocks are pressed tightly together. John throws his head back and stares at the ceiling, struggling to get enough air into his lungs, and doesn’t pull away when Sherlock gently grips his chin and pulls his head forward again so that he has no choice but to watch. The sight of Sherlock’s fingers bringing him off, bringing them both off together, is enough. His back arches and Sherlock kisses him to muffle his cry, tasting John’s orgasm greedily. A moment later he groans deep in his throat and comes too, painting John’s belly with ropes of semen.

John is panting, mind spinning, trembling all over. Sherlock pulls John’s soiled jumper off, moving John’s limbs as he wants, and uses that to clean the two of them up. Then he curls up like a satisfied cat and tucks John in beside him. 

\---

John discovered he was bisexual when he was in university.

One of his fellow students, a boy a year or two his junior with blue eyes and dark hair and a shy smile who was every bit as new to having sex with another boy as John was. They fumbled through it together, discovering what each other liked through trial and error. John found out he liked giving blow jobs and that he liked it even more when rough hands were wound into his hair, but Alex wasn’t so much a fan of that, not after the first time that John choked a little and Alex panicked.

They dated for well over a year until John joined the Army and Alex decided he couldn’t stand idly by, waiting for someone who might never come home. It was an amicable parting, and sometimes John was able to visit him when he came home from leave. Alex never grew any more demanding in bed, but he was good at holding and loving and doing what John wanted, and John realized that he’d found someone who was just like him. 

It was ironic, in a bitter sort of way, and after that he didn’t see Alex again.

\---

“Pick a word.”

John blinks blearily and rolls over. It’s sometime early in the morning and he’s sleepy, caught in the odd little world between fully awake and comfortably asleep. Sherlock is sitting up, already bright-eyed in a way that means he’s been awake for a while, and John curls around his hip, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s side. He tries, half-heartedly, to figure out where Sherlock is coming from, but the man is a mystery unto himself and it’s entirely possible he’s continuing a conversation started while John was still asleep.

“A word?” he mumbles eventually.

“A word,” Sherlock confirms, “to make me stop.”

It takes a minute for the full implication of that to hit John and when it does he stiffens all over, his fingers clenching around Sherlock’s thigh. Sometimes he’s thought, once or twice, that it could happen, that Sherlock could do it, because ordering people around, especially John, is what Sherlock does. But they’ve never talked about it and John has never dared to even allude to the fact that he might want things that way because he doesn’t want to put Sherlock in the position of doing something weird to make John happy. Sherlock can be innocent like that. He closes his eyes.

“No.”

“No? Not a very good word. You might say that anyway.”

John’s mouth goes dry and he shakes his head. “I meant no, I won’t pick a word,” he clarifies, realizing too late that he should’ve pretended he didn’t know what Sherlock is talking about. But then, this is Sherlock, and he probably knows exactly how this is going to go.

There’s a pause, a little two second thing that gives John just enough time to be nervous, and then Sherlock twists and one arm comes around John’s back, pinning him in place. The strike to his bum, a solid clap from a strong palm straight across the seat, is fully unexpected and John jumps with a shocked little yelp as heat blooms across the curve of his arse in the shape of a hand print. He stays very still, eyes wide, his breathing picking up slightly.

“I said. Pick. A. Word,” Sherlock repeats, punctuating each word with another slap. It sounds obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room. 

“Sherlock,” John gasps. His cock is half erect and blood is rushing to it. He feels warm all over.

“Still not good enough.” Sherlock’s fingers catch the waistband of John’s bottoms and pull them down, revealing his arse: he’s not wearing pants underneath and he feels unbearably exposed. John squirms as Sherlock lightly runs his hand across the pink skin. This time the resulting crack is even louder and John can’t hold back his moan. He pushes his cock against Sherlock’s leg, grinding down desperately.

The blows keep coming, peppered across John’s arse, evenly, so that the building heat is everywhere. He whimpers after each one and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Tell me why you’re being punished, John.”

“Because I… oh _god_ …”

“Tell me.”

“I wouldn’t pick a word,” he sobs, unable to keep still. Desire courses through him in a hot rush and the pressure in his stomach is beginning to build, threatening to consume him whole. He breathes in sharp gasping pants that don’t bring enough air to his lungs. 

“That’s right,” Sherlock says, and on the next blow his fingers slide into the crease and graze across John’s entrance with just enough pressure that the small hole gives way.

John arches his back, clutching tightly onto Sherlock as his orgasm shakes him apart. Sherlock strokes his back, his bum, his thighs through it, speaking his name softly. That’s all he says but somehow it’s enough and John feels strangely weak and tired, new and _seen_ by the time it’s over. Sherlock keeps petting him and tells him to go to sleep, that they’ll talk in the morning, and it’s the easiest thing John’s ever done, to close his eyes and obey.

\---

There was no one who could compete with Sherlock.

John knew that from day one.

\---

Sherlock is already gone the next morning. John feels lazy and content as he climbs out of bed. His arse is a bit sore and stiff, the heat thankfully dispersed, and it chafes against the cotton of his underwear, but it’s another reminder of what they were doing so it’s not actually all that bad. He goes out into the kitchen and starts making two cups of tea automatically. Sherlock comes in just as he’s finished and John knows, he just _knows_ his cheeks have turned pink, and Sherlock smirks.

“Good morning,” he says. “Have you picked a word yet?”

John licks his lips and doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sherlock is watching him and this feels like a test of sorts. He knows to be careful of how he responds. He says, “Hound.”

Amusement flashes across Sherlock’s face. “It’ll do.”

Test passed. “Could you explain to me _why_ we need a word?”

“I should think it would be obvious. You get off on submitting.”

To hear it spoken so plainly is a shock to the system. John nearly drops his cup. “I…”

“You’re inexperienced but that’s alright,” Sherlock goes on. “You’ve never found anyone who did it for you until me.” His smile is quick, curved. “I’ve been testing you, seeing how you respond, and you obey me so easily. You’ll do whatever I want.” He reaches out and presses a finger to the mark on John’s throat, pressing hard. It throbs and John swallows. “You will obey me, John.”

“Jesus,” John mutters. “Sherlock, I… you don’t have to… Just… Just us is fine.”

Slowly Sherlock’s hand slides up, cupping his cheek, warm and tender. “I know it is,” he says patiently, like he only ever is with John. “You know I don’t do anything without getting something out of it, John.”

“What then?” It’s impossible for him to imagine what use Sherlock might have for _this_.

“It gives me focus,” Sherlock tells him. “When I don’t have a case my mind needs something else to concentrate on. Now I have you.” 

It should be ominous but it’s not. John can feel his cock swelling at the thought of being the centre of all that focus. He nods, just once, and Sherlock leans down and kisses him, exaggeratedly soft and sweet. This could be that something, John thinks, because he’s already found the someone, and he folds willingly into Sherlock’s arms when they come up around him.


End file.
